Alphabet Soup
by calliopechild
Summary: A series of 26 drabbles of various lengths and natures on everyone's favorite terrapins, friends and enemies, all in no semblance of alphabetical order. Please forgive the cheesy title, as regrettably, no soup will be offered.
1. Memory

_**Disclaimer**__: They're not mine…Eastman and Laird still won't budge. :b_

_Greetings, friends! I'm still alive somehow, though the end of this semester is trying to kill me off. Papers, exams, projects…it's nuts. And on top of that, I'm taking my final exams early so that I can go home—and take summer courses._

_Masochism, thy name is me. ._

_Anywho, it's pretty busy, and as such, some therapy is definitely needed. And what better therapy than writing fanfiction?! :D I'm trying my hand at something new: drabbles. I've done long chapter fics and I've done one-shots, and so I figure that now it's time to dabble in drabbles. :D It's something I've wanted to try for a while because the style is new (for me) and it seems fun, and I figure it'd be an interesting exercise to see if I __**can**__ write short things. ;; So I'm doing 26 alphabet drabbles, one for each letter. They'll be released in whatever order they get written; I'm doing this for fun and stress-relief, and it's a bit too constraining to try and force myself to write drabbles F, G, and H when drabbles X, U and K are fully formed in the back of my brain and clamoring to get out. I can't guarantee anything for update frequency; they get uploaded depending on my free time, which is going to be close to non-existent these next two weeks. But I'll stick a few up here occasionally. Let me know what you guys think; even though these are largely meant for kicks and giggles, fun and stress-relief, it's also a new style and I'd like to know what you guys think and whether I pull it off well or if I should stick to the longer fics._

_One last note: copious thanks to everyone who nominated me/voted for me in the fanfic competitions; I was absolutely gob-smacked when I won four different places. I can't tell you what that support means to me; I really, truly appreciate it. You guys are amazing._

_And now that my author notes are longer than the drabble, onward! :D_

* * *

Father comes in to tell him that his good friend Splinter-san and his sons are coming to visit, and at first he is excited; he remembers the kame creatures, and liked them. The one with the blue bandana and the katana even saved him and said he would be his friend. It is something to look forward to, a welcome break from the etiquette and history lessons that make up his life.

And yet, another part of him—the back or bottom of his stomach or mind, he still can't pin down where the odd feeling is—almost feels like it's frowning at the thought of them coming…the one called Leonardo particularly. It's the same as those dark dreams he remembers from a while ago, back when Father said he too had just awoken from a bad nightmare. Those dreams always make him uneasy, because it seems like he remembers more and more of them each time he wakes up from one, and lately…lately they don't scare him as much, and that makes him uneasy too; the dreams are full of violence and anger, and that should feel wrong, not right, right?

He's confused, but he doesn't talk to Father about it, because it doesn't seem like something he should share.

So he says nothing, and dreams of claws and bridges and dragons, and tries not to flinch when Leonardo-san comes to see them next time.


	2. Shadows

For all that he's lived his entire life trying to learn how to best blend into the shadows, Leo thinks it is beyond ridiculous that he now worries about losing himself in them.

And yet, as many times as he tells himself that he won't disappear, he still can't help the slight apprehension he feels these days whenever they go out for their nightly patrols and his brothers complain about how easy it is for him to become invisible in the darkness. He can't stop his stomach from sinking when he hears one of his brothers raise the question "where's Leo?" He can't fight the ludicrous fear that clenches tight around his heart when he surprises Don one day as his brother turns around and the quiet one yells and says "I didn't even see you there."

For all that the shadows are the place for ninja, he feels himself slipping too far into them these days, and he lives in fear of the day when the answer to "has anyone seen Leo?" will be "no."


	3. Adamantium

Mikey knows that his favorite superheroes aren't real, and that as such, the adamantium of Wolverine's claws doesn't really exist. (At least, not yet; someday, maybe, especially if Donnie gets working on it.) But that knowledge doesn't keep him from wishing his brothers could all be made out of the indestructible metal every time they go out and he has to see another brother hurt, has to spend another week at the bedside of a brother too wounded to wake up.

Someday, he tells himself, someday his big brothers will be as indestructible as he thinks they are.


	4. Opinions

Usagi has never had a high opinion of ninja; they are untrustworthy and dishonest by their very nature. He'd never questioned that, because he had never encountered even a single ninja who challenged that belief.

Until he met Leonardo and his brothers and master.

They were so different from his conception of ninja that he almost wanted to question them, to ask if they were _sure_ they fell into such a category. Never had he seen such loyalty in ninja as he did within that family. Never had he seen such honor in a ninja as he did in Leonardo. Apparently the old adage was true; there are exceptions to every rule.

It was, he supposed, a good reminder that opinions should always be open to revision.


	5. Responsibility

Raph has never been really big on responsibility. It's always been Leo's gig; watch over the little brothers, be the leader, make sure Don occasionally goes to sleep in an actual bed, keep what's left of Mikey's brain from rotting in front of the video game console, keep him from 'getting into trouble' (good _luck_ with that one), prepare Sensei's tea every morning. Leo's got a handle on it, and Raph never wanted that kind of responsibility anyway. He's content with the responsibility he does have, of being the muscle that protects the brain, the heart and the spirit of their messed up team/family/clan. He learned back when Leo was in Japan that he didn't want the responsibility of being the leader.

So when Leo turns to him in the middle of a patrol gone wrong and yells "get them home" before darting off, it isn't until half the crowd of black-clad figures has disappeared after his brother that he realizes he's suddenly been handed leadership. He helps take down the remaining Foot in a daze, and turns to find Don and Mikey watching him, asking with their eyes what to do.

He doesn't know how Leo always manages to have an answer, because the only one he has for them now is the one that Leo just gave him.

And maybe, once upon a time, had there not been a stormy morning and wet rooftops and too many moving shadows, Raph might have even listened to his older brother. He might have led his brothers home and paced the Lair for hours, waiting for Leo to return.

But not now. Not after the countless number of dreams he's had about that one morning when they expected Leo to be fine and he wasn't fine and dammit he let them down—and he was a horrible person, a horrible brother for thinking that his brother let them down by not being invincible, but still, _still_— they expected Leo to be fine and he _wasn't_, he was as far from fine as it was possible for someone to get. Raph didn't want to spend as much time as he did trying to think of all the ways it could have gone, but Leo never, never talks about it even though Raph thinks that knowing would be so much better than wondering. But he can't quite bring himself to ask about it again, not after the first time he did and he watched a light flicker off in Leo's eyes.

So instead of turning around and doing as he's told—which really, Leo should _know_ not to expect of him by now—he searches his brothers' eyes again and now he finds the same resolve that he feels in himself, so they all secure their weapons and take off across the roofs after Leo.

The responsible thing to do would be to listen to Leo. The responsible thing to do would be to get his brothers home safely and wait, or even just get them home and then go after Leo himself. The responsible thing to do would be to _not_ go chasing a fight.

But then, he muses as they chase after Leo, responsibility has never really been his thing.


	6. Harmless

_**Disclaimer**: Not mine._

_I'm back again, after another long absence. I made it through the semester (barely), and now I'm free to write a lot more. And on that note, I decided to post another drabble on here to get back into the swing of things, since I'm planning on starting to post and update another multi-chapter story. This one kind of got away from me a little bit length-wise, leaning more towards one-shot than drabble, but it's only little over 1,000 words. Shorter than my other one shots, at least. :D_

_On the note of writing, I have a question for you guys; for chapter stories, which do you generally prefer: shorter chapters updated more often, or longer chapters updated less often? Like with my other stories, I have this new one all planned out, and partly written, so by posting it up here, I'll be inclined to hurry it up and finish so I don't keep you guys waiting too long. Let me know what you prefer, and I'll try and work something out. That's all I can think of for now, so please read and review and let me know what you think! Thanks!_

* * *

Harmless

* * *

Don heaved a sigh as the last Dragon fell unconscious to the ground, collapsing on top of a pile of rubbish. He shook his head and stuck his bo back into his belt, grumbling as he bent down to pick up his scattered materials.

Another rummage point struck off his list.

The Dragons, in an unexpected display of actual thought, had gotten it into their minds to waylay him when he came to visit the junkyard while searching for parts. And Don had to hand it to them, the first time he was jumped while in the middle of searching for an analog circuit board and a secondary router, he was impressed at their ingenuity.

The _first_ time. The next two times after that…

Not so much.

Tonight marked the third such "ambush", and correspondingly, the third rummage point that he could no longer come to because of the Purple Dragons. This had continued for the past month; each time he was forced to find a new place to search for materials, he would have about a week or so before the Dragons would stumble across him and try to attack him. It was extremely annoying, and made things very difficult for him. It was hard enough to find the kind of parts and supplies he needed for his various experiments as it was; trying to do so while avoiding Dragons—and trying to keep said Dragons from landing on said necessary parts as he beat them up—just made things even harder. Not to mention it seriously cut into his time; spending longer amounts of time in the junkyard normally wouldn't be a problem, except Leo would start to get anxious, and start asking questions, and Leo was extremely hard to lie to convincingly. Don knew if his brother heard about what had been happening (which he hadn't yet, and wouldn't, if Don's luck held), he'd be banned from the junkyard for the next few months…or forced to bring someone along, which was nearly worse. With their temper, lack of attention span, and propensity for worrying respectively, Raph, Mikey and Leo just weren't cut out for the kinds of trips Don took.

Don sighed and pulled a handful of small cameras and sensors out of his duffel bag, walking around and over the Dragons as he hid them around the immediate area. Just like with the other two locations he'd lost, he wanted to keep track of how long the Dragons kept checking this spot, so that he'd know when it would be safe to come back.

"Really…the few nights a week I actually have the time to come out here and work, and you lot just have to interrupt," he murmured to the unconscious thugs as he stowed his finds away carefully. "It's getting rather old. I might have to bring Raph next time, just to get you to lay off."

Don's lips tightened at his own words.

And it was because he wasn't Raph or Leo that this happened in the first place, wasn't it? The Dragons came after him because he was "an easy target". He had been in enough fights, and paid attention during them, to know how it went; the Dragons and the Foot avoided Leo and Raph like the plague (for all the good it did them) and went after him and Mikey instead…though mostly him. He was the quiet one, the pacifist, the one to go after. Don straightened from his work and glanced over the piles of whimpering gang members with no small amount of satisfaction before he slipped out of sight.

Only half as many Dragons had showed up this time. Apparently, not as many were still convinced that it would be quick, easy fun to go after "the passive one". They were learning, however slowly, that "pacifistic" didn't mean "harmless", and certainly didn't mean "helpless."

It was a lesson that the Dragons were learning even slower than his brothers had.

Don sighed, shaking off his thoughts. This line of thinking always ended with him upset and frustrated, and that was not the mindset he need to be in if he was going to get his things home and work on his power converter.

A sudden shuffling caught his attention, and he glanced to the side to see one Dragon reach over and punch another one weakly.

"Thought ya said…that one couldn't fight…dumbass…'he's harmless'…ya said…'ain't a fighter', ya said…" He sputtered and gestured at the broken arm he was sporting. "This look harmless t'you, shithead?"

"Shut up," another wheezed, one Don clearly remembered kicking in the gut. "Seriously, 's what the guys…all said…"

Don smirked and turned on his heel, continuing home. _That's what you get for listening to idle gossip_, he thought to himself vindictively_. No one seems to understand that since I prefer peace, I have to fight twice as well in order to have that peace._

He let his mind wander as he stole home, finally coming to the sewer entrance closest to the Lair, and paused as he rested his hand on the lid.

"You can come out, you know; I know you've been following me since the junkyard."

A whisper of movement, made more out of acknowledgment than any lack of skill, and his brother stepped up beside him.

"You didn't need to follow me," Don pointed out. "I'm perfectly fine on my own."

"I know that."

"Then why did you?"

"You were late."

"Like that's never happened before," Don grumbled. He didn't want anyone knowing about the attacks at the junkyard; his scavenging trips were some of the only time he had to himself, and he was loath to lose it. He shifted, waiting for some kind of comment, and finally gave in with a huff. "So? Why didn't you jump in and help?"

Raph looked at Don and made a face. "Why would I? Ya looked like you needed to hit some idiots. An' you were doin' fine."

Don blinked at the honesty in his brother's voice, then smiled slightly.

"You thought so?"

"'Course. I've been hit by that overgrown stick of yers enough times to know you didn't need my help."

"Overgrown stick?!"

"I mean, just think what ya could do with a real weapon…"

"A real weapon? This from the turtle with a glorified pair of forks? I'll have you know—"

Raph grinned at his brother's reaction, reaching out to flick his bandana tails. "Touchy subject, eh?"

Don scowled and batted his hand away. "Idiot." They trudged on quietly for a few minutes. "Raph? Why _didn't_ you help?"

"What, did ya want me to?" When Don shook his head, Raph shrugged. "There ya go. Like I said, you looked like ya had it handled." He grinned again, his teeth white in the darkness.

"Besides, there were only fifteen of 'em."


	7. Quarantine

_**Disclaimer**__: Not mine._

_Before you say a word, I know; there is nothing drabble-ish about this at all, not at 1,500 words. . I'm trying to write short stuff, but ideas get away from me so easily. Still, I hope you like this. I'm pretty happy with it, considering it was written in an afternoon. Be forewarned, it's kind of dark, and **very** introspective and metaphorical. Just so you know. :D_

**XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX**

Quarantine

**XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX**

Don watches from the top floor of the Lair, jaw clenched, as Leo bows to Master Splinter and heads out of the Lair. A full pack rests heavily on Leo's right shoulder, sparing the still raw and sensitive gash on the left part of his shell. Don keeps his eyes on the lighter area of his brother's shell, the one thing his knowledge can never heal, until the door closes and blocks his vision.

Leo is being sent away to the Ancient One in Japan, because Master Splinter "has nothing left to teach him".

It's a ridiculous excuse, Don thinks, but is admittedly less painful than the truth: Master Splinter doesn't think he can help Leo, doesn't think he can heal him, and so is sending him away to some stranger who he apparently thinks _can_.

Don turns away from the railing and makes for his lab, fighting the compulsion to run after his brother and ask him not to go. The Lair is oddly silent with just four, his brothers having already hidden themselves away. Words float about his mind, things he wants to say to Leo, and things he wants to yell at his father.

Quarantine. That is what is happening. Isolating the sick person so that they do not infect anyone else.

Amputation. Removing an infected limb to prevent the death of more healthy cells, and to protect the rest of the body.

As medical terminology and treatments for serious illness or injuries, Don understands both words.

As treatments for his eldest brother's festering anger and guilt, he does not.

It has only been a couple months, he thinks, since the incident on the Shredder's starship; why wasn't Master Splinter willing to try a bit longer? What could a stranger do for their brother that they couldn't? _They_ understood his demons, understood the emotional cancer that ate away at Leo…at least, as much as anyone could.

But Master Splinter's word is law, so Don is left with no option but to bite his tongue and keep his anger and resentment to himself.

Master Splinter didn't seem to understand, didn't seem to get that the four of them had come to accept each other's weaknesses and illnesses, had learned to work around and compensate for them. Amputating a limb that is perceived as being infected is not the answer, not for them. Besides the fact that they are all infected in their own ways, the absence of a much-needed limb (one of the strong legs that has carried them through so much) will cause even more damage, as the pain from the missing limb will still echo through nerves that haven't ceased to strain for the limb instinctively, even if their connections have been forcibly cut. They will be unbalanced, will try things they can no longer accomplish without that missing limb.

Don grits his teeth as he reaches his lab and locks the door. The finality of the action and the sound resonates within him, and he rests his forehead on the door with a shaky sigh.

Quarantine. For himself now, as well. And why not? It is obviously the treatment option of choice for their family.

But…what if everyone was sick, just in different ways? He had long since recognized the sicknesses he could see in himself and his brothers. They all had black, malignant somethings inside of them that ate away at the healthy parts of them, destroying them from the inside out.

Leo's self-destructive sense of responsibility and guilt for all the bad in the world that hurt them.

Raph's constant rage and his hatred for his temper, and for never (in his eyes) measuring up to Leo.

His own sense of shame for his lack of desire when it came to fighting, for his self-perceived rejection of his father's teachings.

Mikey's fear of insufficiency, of never measuring up to his brothers.

They were all sick, all rotting away inside from one illness or another. And they never got better, because they had forgotten how to confide in each other, had forgotten how to trust each other with the deepest parts of themselves. They kept their sicknesses to themselves, afraid of contaminating the others by admitting to their maladies and asking for help.

Somewhere between growing up and becoming a team, they had also grown apart. Somewhere between the eras of being children and becoming warriors, they had also learned about jealousy and shame, insufficiency and competition.

They began to refuse to show their weaknesses even to each other, the ones they should trust the most, because to show a weakness to someone was to give them an opportunity to hurt you.

Don is familiar with this tendency of theirs, and it is one that even he admits to himself that he can't—doesn't want to, isn't able to, doesn't know how to?—escape. He knows better than his brothers that to remove a cancer buried deep inside, one has to cut through all the layers between the world and the cancer. One has to bear everything for an internal sickness to be found and treated.

That idea of that degree of exposure is uncomfortable to say the least, and vaguely terrifying to be honest.

So all their illnesses stay put. Even though the antibodies, the cures, could all be found in each other, they never try to find them, because getting close enough to heal means risking being close enough to infect.

So they are all still sick, all still slowly being eaten away at from inside.

Don pauses suddenly, staring at the door handle still resting underneath his hand.

But if they are all sick, then what is the point of quarantine? It isn't like their personal illnesses are contagious; rather, their cancers are, by their very nature, exclusive. He himself is too logical and realistic to believe he could bear the weight of their world on his shoulders. Mikey is too easygoing to ever have enough anger to be a risk to anyone. Raph will never (_ever_) have to search for motivation to enter a battle and strike out at an enemy. And Leo—whether he will ever realize it or not—will never in his life have to worry about failing to measure up to his brothers.

So then, he wonders, why keep themselves separate? Even if they are too hesitant to share and heal, they can at least be (heart)sick together, right?

Don thinks of Leo, destroying himself in the dojo every day for the past two months, his guilt eating him alive; he thinks of Raph, burning out and turning his anger on himself as he runs out of enemies; of Mikey, clinging to the reassurance of his Battle Nexus victory, yet at the same time, fading its brilliance by running it through his fingers so often; and himself, spending nearly all his time in his lab, forgetting things about his brothers in an effort to keep out of their fights.

He flips the lock back and pulls the door open, striding out of his lab.

Why should he heed the unspoken quarantine? Why should any of them? If they are all sick already, what is the point? After all, it isn't like any of them really have many healthy cells left to worry about.

He strides to Mikey's room and knocks, beckoning to his little brother. "Want to watch a movie?" he asks.

Mikey looks up from his comic book, bandana suspiciously damp. "Why?"

_Chemotherapy_, Don thinks with a sudden, wild desperation.

"I need the distraction," he says instead, knowing he speaks for both of them.

His little brother gives a weak smile and hops off the bed. "_Superman Returns?_"

Don thinks of sitting through two hours of a movie about a strong, reliable hero with only one weakness, who is singled out and exploited and hurt and nearly killed, only to rise again, triumphant and whole again, in the end.

"I'll get the popcorn," he says. "You find Raph."

They separate, and Don throws a bag of popcorn in the microwave and hits the button, standing in the way of the harmful microwaves, rather than out of their path like usual. It's the wrong kind of radiation, but it can't do more damage than has already been done, he figures.

A minute later he walks to the TV console to find his brothers, Mikey looking tentatively hopeful, Raph looking put-upon and still mildly thunderous (and underneath it, wounded, and uncertain, and silently grateful to be included in something he is too proud, too angry to ask for). They both look at him, and he is grateful as he notices them determinedly trying to ignore the door Leo walked out of and the firmly shut door of Sensei's chambers.

_Chemotherapy_, Don thinks again, recalling their movie choice; painful, intense treatment that doesn't always work, that sometimes is helpless in the face of cancers that are too far advanced, too deeply rooted to be destroyed.

"Go ahead and start the movie, Mikey," he says.

Some chance of healing is better than none. And besides, he thinks, they are brothers; even if this doesn't work, they can at least self-destruct together.


	8. Unbridle

Unbridle

* * *

Leo has always kept a tight leash on himself, has always reined in his emotions, never letting them get out of check. Unlike Raph, he tells himself, _he_ understands and practices restraint. It is necessary, he knows; he is responsible for his family's safety, and if his mind is clouded by emotion, he can't properly protect them.

He doesn't have the luxury of being overly emotional, of giving in to unbridled rage and rashness and careless, casual emotion.

He must be controlled, exacting, balanced.

His mind relays all of this to him mildly as he stares at the cooling body of his brother in his arms. The thoughts do not come in a judging manner; it is just his mind reminding him of all the things he had spent years imprinting on it and on his heart.

He feels cold, he realizes. Almost as cold as his dead little brother, who is still (_foolishly_) looking up to him, even in death.

The cold goes deeper than his blood.

It occurs to him suddenly that Raph is never cold. He remembers that from when they were children, turtle tots who used to sleep together in a tangle of chubby arms and legs; while Don and Mikey were always chilly from flinging limbs everywhere, Raph was a little furnace, and always the one he would huddle next to on cold nights. He wishes he could say he remembers it from present-day embraces as well, but his experiences these days tend more towards feeling Raph kneeling next to him as they both get lectured for fighting again, his brother radiating anger so palpable it becomes heat, so much so that Leo wonders if the side of his body closest to his brother will cook and burn. Raph is—_heat violence life fury vibrancy rage emotion_—always warm. Always hot-headed and hot-blooded.

Warmed by rage.

He is so, _so cold_.

As cold as his little brother, his Mikey, who never locked away emotions. He sometimes wondered if his brother wasn't so wild and rambunctious and energetic because he had decided to feel for both of them, both for himself and for the big brother who didn't have the time—_strength permission understanding_—to feel as much.

His thoughts are wandering. They don't normally do that; they are normally obedient and orderly, as controlled as his emotions.

Michelangelo was never, never locked away…he was light and laughter, and too—too lively and bouncy to be controlled. He shouldn't have encouraged control, he realizes now.

Too late.

It is so cold he aches, aches like he is encased in ice, ice that seeps so deep it reaches even into the marrow of his bones.

His brother is so still his heart weeps and burns with it. Mikey, his Mikey, was never meant to be so still and unsmiling.

He slides the pale green body (_he is not a corpse_) off of his lap and closes the eyes (_he is just sleeping now)_, hiding (_what used to be_) his brother in the shadows (_where he never should have been kept_).

His mind is an untamed riot, suddenly; a low but growing roar in the back of his mind, adding to everything, tacking reproachful whispers onto every word and thought.

It is now his turn to feel for both of them. He owes his brother that much; he failed him, failed to protect him, failed to get here in time, so he will begin atoning for it now. He will do better, feel more. He will share what emotions he can with his remaining brothers—_love pride sadness_—will try and bring more emotion to their home, the home that is going to be _so damn cold_ now without their sun.

Without a sun…without warmth…

Warmth. Anger. Like Raph.

Raph is never this cold. (_Take a page out of his book? his mind asks quietly._)

(He doesn't bother to silence the whispers.)

He stands slowly, quieting the part of his mind that shrieks at the way his skin pulls and crackles and stretches unpleasantly where his little brother's blood has dried on him.

From now on, he will feel more, for Michelangelo. He will address his emotions. But not hysteria, not now; that one will have to wait.

He turns and follows the tracks of blood to warehouse, where he finds enemies celebrating in a—_crude disrespectful blasphemous heretical_—mockery of the kind of innocent, pure joy Michelangelo used to live and breathe.

Leo examines his emotions in the neat, orderly little box he has always kept them in, and cuts the lock off the door, silent as he begins to unbridle and unleash the beast he has always known was inside of him. He turns to the skylight as he draws his swords, absently calculating the distance to the floor of the warehouse, the time it will take to deal with the paltry handful of enemies within.

The ice starts to hiss, to crack and melt.

He _will_ feel more from now on, for Michelangelo, he promises silently. It might take a while to get used to it, but he will. There _are_ emotions in him, lots of them, and he will let them out.

He leaps forward—_think of red and orange and fire and warmth_—and crashes through the skylight.

He'll start with rage.


	9. Yakuza

_Ha HA! Finally, something drabble-like in length! Only 270 words; I'm sadly impressed with myself. :b I'm still chugging along on these; I'll probably try and post one or two in between each chapter of "The More Things Change", because they're nice de-stressers. And they're a lot quicker to finish than chapters of TMTC. Anyways, here's a new one, from Karai's POV. And the ages are just guesses; we're not given any specifics on Karai's timeline or age or anything, so…artistic license! :D (For anyone who doesn't know, the yakuza are the Japanese mafia, and "yaks" is a nickname for them.) Enjoy!_

* * *

The first time Karai hears someone refer to her father and the Foot as "yaks", she is a rigidly calm, obedient thirteen-year-old living in Japan, and she has never questioned her father even once. The word fills her with fury, because she has seen true yakuza, and they are disgusting, unskilled, dishonorable bumbling idiots. They are nothing like her father, who is poised and kind and collected and who deserves the respect of everyone. The yakuza of Japan murder and steal and hurt people who don't deserve it. Her father runs a clan of skilled ninja and rescues orphans off of the street. The two couldn't be more different. She says nothing, not wanting to upset her father by repeating such filth.

She wants to kill the stranger for being such a liar.

The second time Karai hears someone refer to her father and the Foot as "yaks", she is a cold, newly-orphaned young woman of twenty-three, sitting in a jail cell in New York after watching her father be taken from her and exiled. Much has changed, but much remains the same, as well. She has questioned her father many times by now, though she hates herself for it. The man's words still fill her with fury, though she once again says nothing. Her mind recalls the countless crimes she heard read before the council a thousand light years away from where she is now, remembers the years she has spent at her father's side, the things she has seen him done, and the people she has seen him hurt.

She wants to kill the stranger for being right.


	10. Found

_Disclaimer:_ TMNT property of Eastman and Laird. Ergo, they're not mine. :(

Wah! I am so sorry I haven't posted ANYTHING for so long, but my junior year of college has been crazy. I'm not going to give you a list of all the crap on my plate this year ('cause it'll depress me), I'm just going to say that I'm sorry I haven't updated, but I've really wanted to. Things have just been too crazy, and considering I'm in the last two years of my college career, school really has to come first. I am still writing when I'm able to, and I hope to have another drabble or two up soon, and hopefully the next chapter of TMTC in the next few weeks. Hopefully. I just ask that you guys continue to bear with me, and know that I love you for your patience and continued support. 3

Now then! This is just a (kind of little compared to others) one-shot, because I was in too verbose a mood to restrict this to a drabble. This is meant to be set sometime in the future, meaning all the guys have aged a bit and things are a little quieter for them. This is just my take on one of the many issues I figure Leo has and is going to have to deal with sooner or later, especially if the day comes when their enemies are beaten: taking off the 'leader' mantle and trying to fit back into the 'brother' mantle. I was just feeling wordy and nostalgic, so I ran with it. It's just a little thing I had fun with, experimenting with some slight changes in style and trying my hand at present-tense (please forgive me for any errors or accidental tense-switches) and a dialogue-free piece. Let me know what you think!

(Note:_o-kaeri nasai_ means 'welcome home' in Japanese.)

* * *

Found

* * *

Privately, Leo thinks that he knows his brothers thoroughly, knows generally how they will react in given situations or what their usual behavior is like. He knows that occasionally he'll miss something, or guess wrong, but for the most part, he feels it is safe to say that he knows his brothers almost better than he knows himself.

However, tonight appears to be one of those occasions where he seems to have missed something.

He'd finished tidying up the dojo after a light personal training session and had been preparing to head for his room to get some candles and incense for meditation to while away the evening. The day had been warm and gorgeous, the first authentic-feeling day of summer, and he knew his brothers would be heading out soon for a night of games and relaxation, basking in the warmth that still remained, reveling in the end of the sluggishness of winter and the chilly wetness of spring.

The years have given him a better understanding of his brothers, and eased his fears and ingrained paranoia, so he'd said nothing to deter their excited chatter and planning over dinner. He'd merely smiled and suggested routes that ought to be particularly nice on such a night, sections of the park with flowering trees that still clung to some of their spring blossoms. His recommendations were accepted and he was happy with that, setting his dishes in the sink and going off to train.

Leo isn't sure when the sensation of his brothers and he being two separate groups had first come into being; he only knew that it was there and uncomfortably like his feelings in the dark days before he visited the Ancient One. Back then, he had seen his brothers as clueless, completely blind to the fact that his extreme behavior was for their own good. They had seemed to be completely separate from him, shoved by his own anger and self-recrimination into the large category of people 'who just don't understand'. He no longer views his brothers with eyes clouded by perceived failure and self-doubt, but the feeling of distance, of not belonging creeps back up on him from time to time. He tries every day to trust them and stop expecting the worst (while still being prepared for it), but he backslides sometimes. So he accepts that his brothers are going out tonight, and tells himself he doesn't mind not going (or not being asked to come), because it _is_ a perfect night, and he doesn't want to ruin it by going along and worrying (which he can't help but do).

So he busies himself with _kata_ and weapons, and tells himself that he knows his brothers. He knows their skill and strength, and he knows he can trust them to be careful and keep each other safe. The doubt and uncertainty of past years has largely faded along with their most ardent enemies, and watchful trust has replaced it. He can let them go on nights like this, because he knows them.

Or so he thought.

Upon leaving the dojo, he is confronted with the barrel of a gun. His instincts flare up with the silent scream of danger, then cut off in bafflement as it registers that the gun in his face is plastic…and being held by his younger brother.

He is coming with them on their evening of ninja tag and an ice cream run, Mikey informs him cheerfully from behind the duct-taped scope of his weapon, whether he likes it or not. The gun (a Super Soaker, Leo notes absently, that he was sure Master Splinter had confiscated and hidden months ago) is full of old lady perfume, his little brother adds, and he isn't afraid to use it if Leo tries to cop out.

It takes a while for Leo's brain to process being held up at gunpoint by his brother for an ice cream run, of all things, but he accepts it as gracefully as he can. As soon as he sets aside the questions about that, though, questions as to why his brothers have so emphatically sought him out rise in their place. He is still learning to be a brother rather than a leader, and knows it is a slow process. That was why he was staying busy tonight, so that they can know he isn't worrying and doesn't mind staying home and not worrying. Really.

He opens his mouth to say this, to tell his brothers he is alright with staying home, because he'd rather stay in the Lair than be invited out of pity and end up ruining his brother's evening. Pride is not a becoming trait, he knows, but he doesn't think he could stand being invited out of pity, doesn't think he could stand knowing things have fallen so far, that they've grown so far apart—(that he's gotten so boring, the voice in his head that occasionally sounds like Mikey adds cheekily).

Leo tries to explain, only to have the Super Soaker pushed threateningly close to his person. The action takes him aback, and the overpowering smell of gardenia wafts into his face. He finds himself wondering idly where his brothers got the perfume from.

Resistance is futile, Mikey informs him gravely, his Schwarzenegger impression frighteningly accurate. Leo notes to himself that he needs to hide their copy of _The Terminator_.

Don shakes his head at their youngest brother's theatrics and points out that since the decision has already been made for him, Leo might as well start thinking about what flavor of ice cream he wants rather than excuses as to why he can't come.

Cut off resoundingly as he was, Leo grasps for words fruitlessly before turning to Raph. Raph is always blunt, always clear about why he does what he does, and Leo hopes his remaining brother can explain where this random kidnapping/coup has come from.

Raph just smirks at him, though the expression is slightly softer around the edges than usual, and quirks an eye ridge. There is a challenge in his face, but for once it's not a challenge of Leo's orders. It's something else, something deeper, but Leo is still slightly off-balance from his company being requested—or rather, demanded—on this outing, and he can't quite figure out what Raph is challenging him to do. He knows, though, the knowledge coming to him suddenly and quietly, that it is a challenge he needs to take his brother up on.

He sighs fondly in mock exasperation, surrendering to the expectant faces before him, and comments mildly that he hopes they don't expect him to pay for everything. Smiles break out on Don and Mikey's faces, and something that looks surprisingly like contentment or satisfaction slips across Raph's. That _he_ was the one to cause such reactions sends a suffusion of warmth through Leo's chest, and he obligingly submits to Mikey linking an arm through his and dragging him to the door. He doesn't miss the way Don smoothly snatches the gun out of Mikey's hand and replaces it with the requisite trench coat and fedora—or the way he then slips the toy to Master Splinter, who is waiting by the door with a knowing smile and a request for a small sundae of cherry cordial ice cream, extra nuts, no whipped cream.

Leo allows his little brothers to herd and drag him along, quietly glad to replace the quiet with their chatter. They slip out of the Lair, into the sewers, heading for the manhole that leads up into the park, and as Leo aligns their location with his internal sense of direction, he realizes suddenly that they're heading for the exact places he recommended that they visit.

And suddenly he feels like he's been found, like he's found himself, found out how to be a brother again, found out how to go back to those times that he misses desperately, when their world wasn't full of fighting and hiding and losing parts of themselves. He remembers now, when nights like this used to be the norm rather than the exception, when he would go out with his brothers, at ease with them and himself and the world—who cared who was in it, and whether the world wanted them or not, who cared, who cared, they had each other—and wonders, with a flicker of pain, when he forgot. But the pain passes in an instant, because he feels as though he's just fought that rocky version of himself again under the Ancient One's eyes, beaten his weaknesses and found out how to forgive himself and _be_ himself again.

His relief nearly chokes him, and he feels if he doesn't tell someone he will explode with it, but it's not something he can put into words, not something he thinks he can explain; how do you tell those you live with that you've felt lost when right beside them? So he speaks the only way he can at the moment, in Raph's language, with action rather than words. Leo slides his arm out of Mikey's, replacing it a moment later around his brother's shoulders, stopping him in his tracks and pulling him around until they're facing each other. Mikey's face is confused, but Leo still has no words, so he just tugs his little brother forward until their foreheads meet, and then his other arm is around his brother as well, and he's nearly shaking both of them with the relief of finding and being found. His little brother's breath is warm on his face, and Leo finds himself whispering breathlessly, words he didn't know were escaping and that he still thinks fall short, a low murmur of _thank you, thank you, thank you._ He still feels like he can't properly express what for—_for waiting, for looking, for trying, for caring, for not giving up on me_—but Mikey seems to understand, in that way of his that makes everyone's heart an open book before his shining eyes and huge grin.

Mikey just smiles and hugs him back, resting his head in the crook of Leo's neck like he did as a child and humming tunelessly, happily, and whispers back—as much as Mikey can ever whisper—_you're welcome, we missed you, glad you're back_. It both hurts him and humbles him, to realize he's kept his brothers waiting for all these years, and that they continued to wait for him.

Don and Raph turn to see what the holdup is, and Leo is glad that his mask has absorbed the moisture gathered in his eyes, though he also thinks that he wouldn't be that embarrassed if his tears were visible. He squeezes Mikey's shoulder and steps back, reassuring his brothers that he's fine.

They come closer, not believing him, and Don traces his face with his eyes, solemn and contemplative, then smiles as though content with what he's seen. He brushes a hand along the top of Leo's head, the gesture comfortingly familiar to Master Splinter's, and murmurs a soft _o-kaeri nasai_. Raph moves to stand beside him, searching his face as well and shoving against him gently. That he doesn't move away, but maintains the contact, says just as much and is just as affectionate—in Raph's way—as Mikey's nuzzling hug.

Leo doesn't want to push his luck, still certain that such happiness is tenuous and liable to break if he leans too heavily on it, so he smiles at his brothers, remembering too the carefree expression and hoping it can become familiar again, and declares the last one to the surface to be hatched from a rotten egg.

Then he takes off running.

The sound of indignant shouts and frenzied scrambling behind him draws a laugh from deep within him, and he feels like he's outrunning time, shedding all the years and cares that have piled worry on him to the point that he sometimes feels like he's bent like an old man under the weight of it all. But now he's light, somehow young again, and the racket behind him doesn't make him want to chastise his brothers for their lack of stealth, it makes him want to laugh harder, because he can hear Raph trip Mikey and pass by their squawking brother.

Raph suddenly pulls alongside of him, nothing more than a sharp, white grin and a moving shadow in the dimness of the tunnel, matching Leo step for step. Their gaits align, and then they're running together, in lockstep, beside each other instead of away from each other, finally, _finally_. They pass under a service light, and Leo darts a glance at his brother. Raph's face is all a shark's smile and ease, and he too looks younger and lighter, his anger stripped away. Leo returns the smile as they plunge back into shadow. He senses his brother shift closer, and their shoulders brush on each step as they run at the same pace, sounding like one person instead of two. It's the closest he's felt to Raph in years, and he finds himself wishing that this tunnel run could go on forever, while at the same time he can't wait for whatever will come once they reach topside, already treasuring the next few hours he gets to spend with his brothers. Mikey is complaining about fouls and yellow flag and rematches close behind him, and Don is holding forth on how—and why—it would be impossible for anything to hatch from a rotten egg—

And suddenly, Leo realizes, he's found his way home.


	11. Control

_**Disclaimer:**__ I don't own the Turtles. And trust me, they're happy about it._

_So, as usual, I've got a crapload of things I __**should**__ be doing (cough exams class reading cough), but I realized that I've been neglecting this collection, and when I found this one-shot in my story folder, I decided to touch it up a bit and post it. (I seriously can't believe I haven't added something to this since October; The More Things Change has been consuming my attention, but still. .) Also, I know there have been a lot of Leo POV ficlets/one-shots on here lately, and I promise the other guys will be back in the spotlight too! I just really wanted to get something posted, and this is what I had on hand that was finished. (Plus, I doubt you guys REALLY mind all that much. :D) As a matter of fact, I have a Donnie fic that I'm lining up to have the next slot in here, and it's...about halfway done. I'll try and work on it this weekend after I survive my exam and get the next chapter of TMTC up. Anyways, I hope you guys like it!_

* * *

Control.

To regulate. To restrain. To exercise authority over. To hold in check.

Governance. Mastership. Authority. Guidance.

I have lived my entire life searching for some measure of control in this crazy world; control over my fate, over the fate of my family, over my small corner of the earth. Even beyond that, I have been raised under the precept of control. As a ninja, I am trained to have complete control over my body and mind, and even my spirit. Unfortunately, as I've grown and come to know more of the world around me, I've learned something:

My control only extends to myself.

Control over others, over my environment, even over my own fate…is essentially impossible to attain.

Yet here I am, fighting against a horde of strangers for this city, for my way of life, for control. Sometimes I wonder what I would do if we ever _did_ gain control over New York…probably nothing other than keep it safe and continue to live quietly. With three younger brothers to look after, I don't have time for megalomania.

The Purple Dragons, however, seem to think that _they_ do; personally, I think that if they can't spell it, they shouldn't be allowed to have it.

So here we are, battling to keep control of New York out of their hands. Even with Hun gone they're a force to be reckoned with; what they lack in skill, they tend to make up for in numbers.

Case in point: while I fend off two Dragons armed with pipes (where on earth do they get those, anyways? Do they just break them off of bike racks or something?), a third sneaks up on me from the side, just far enough behind my peripheral vision that his sucker-punch to my jaw takes me completely by surprise. I curse as I stumble backward, spitting out the blood from where I bit my tongue, and deal a vicious mule kick to the chest of the Dragon who punched me. Several somethings crack upon impact, and he screams weakly before collapsing. I can't bring myself to care about my lack of finesse, too busy disarming and knocking down the two pipe-wielding Dragons.

I lunge forward to the next group, intent on taking back control of the fight, and there's a sudden sharp pain in my leg. I swear, as much from shock and pain as from anger and irritation. A miscalculation; a downed opponent was not as unconscious as I'd thought.

A serious mistake. But at least _I_ paid for it, rather than one of my brothers.

When I glance down, the thug that struck me grins through a split lip, hanging onto the short dagger and then pushing it in further. My leg gives as the dagger reaches and rends muscle, and I land on my knee, feeling the reverberations clash unpleasantly where the knife has met bone. I swear again (I'm starting to sound like Raph) and lash out with my fist, striking him in the temple, and the Dragon falls like a sack of bricks. Dead or unconscious, I don't really care at this point.

I slice out to the side with my katana, sensing another Dragon that thought that being injured meant I was unaware and an easy target.

He screams when my blade connects. I make sure that he is out of commission and unarmed; I'm not one who has to learn a lesson the hard way twice.

I hiss in pain and anger as I force myself to my feet. I was inattentive and sloppy, and got myself injured, and now precision fighting is no longer an option. With an injured leg, I can't fight as I'd like, with as little blood as possible; I've now got to utilize the extra reach that my katanas give me, which means bloody fighting. I've lost control of this fight, and I can't help the frustration I feel.

"Don, look out!"

My head whips around at Raph's shout and I search the rooftop for Donnie. He's occupied with a giant of a Dragon, not as big as Hun but close, and the behemoth has a pipe that he's bearing down on Don with. Don is sunk into a low stance, his arms over his head as he repels the pipe with his bo. I can tell from the heavy cracking and Don's slight wince every time the punk strikes that there's a lot of power in each hit. Don can't turn his back on him, or he'd get a cracked skull. Which leads to the problem: the second Dragon that's coming up on Don from behind with a knife in his hand.

I glance around. Raph is too busy with Dragons of his own to reach Don, and Mikey, though free, is too far away. And with my leg, I'd never make it in time—

…but a thrown blade would. And while a sword wouldn't have the right kind of trajectory, a _dagger_—

It only takes an instant to decide, and then I'm yanking the dagger out of my leg and letting it fly towards the Dragon that Don is fending off. Projectiles are really more Raph's specialty, since his weapons lend themselves to being thrown, but over the years I've made sure I know how to throw a blade, and this one buries itself in the side of the giant's neck with a meaty squelch I can hear even from where I am.

Don jerks with surprise as the knife appears and his opponent falls lifelessly to the rooftop, but pauses only a moment before turning around and easily dispatching the man approaching him from behind.

He's safe. I can breathe again.

My younger brother turns to nod his thanks, but suddenly glares at me. I know he's caught sight of the wound in my leg, but I just shrug. I don't care if removing the blade from a wound only makes things worse; my brothers' safety comes before mine.

Content that Don is safe, I turn back around and dive into the fighting again.

A few downed opponents later, I can tell my leg is affecting me more than I'd like. Each Dragon takes long to disarm and knock out, and I'm much more fatigued than I should be. I strike another one with the hilt of my katana and glance down.

My leg is covered in blood. The dagger must have hit more than just muscle.

I sheathe my swords quickly and fumble with my bandana for use as a makeshift tourniquet, but when I bend over to bandage my leg, the entire world tilts and I suddenly find myself lying on my side.

This could be a problem.

Four Dragons immediately break away from fighting my brothers to approach me, like scavengers abandoning healthy prey for an easier meal. It sickens me, as does their ignorance; I might be injured, but I'm far from helpless. I struggle upright again, though I have to be satisfied with kneeling; standing makes the world spin in an unsettling manner. Another dagger, taken from one of the many unconscious Dragons nearby, knocks down one of my attackers for good. A pipe thrown at the knees of another works just as well, his head connecting with a wet smack against the roof. Unsurprisingly, he doesn't get back up. The other two are no more successful than their comrades, as the reach that my katana give me fends them off and silences them.

I'm a little disconcerted by the way I can't move after that. I can't even help my brothers anymore, because my vision is wavering too much for me to trust myself to be throwing any more blades around.

Things are getting oddly muffled now. I can't hear what's being said, but I can see Raph shouting orders as he plows through the remaining Foot. Don is stepping up as well, talking swiftly to Mikey, probably asking for medical equipment from his bag of tricks or telling him how to help.

They are taking control, and they are doing so on their own. I really ought to let them do this more often; they're working seamlessly. I almost wish Master Splinter could see them, but then he'd end up seeing what my carelessness has wrought as well, and I'd rather not have him see that. Partly out of pride and embarrassment, yes, but also because I don't want him to worry; my leg probably just looks worse than it is.

I feel oddly light and heavy at the same time, and the world continues to tilt unpleasantly even after I suddenly find myself lying down. I don't remember falling, but the rough texture of the rooftop is grating against my arms and I'm canted slightly on my shell in that vaguely helpless way that I recognize and hate. (Don tells us it's our turtle instincts that make us hate being on our backs; I wonder if it's that or our warrior instincts that increase my hate more.) The blood loss is sapping at my strength, and all of my limbs each seem to weigh a ton, and yet…I feel so light. The situation is now out of my hands, but I can't really seem to care, because I know it will be alright. There are only half a dozen Dragons left, and I've seen Raph's rage carry him through twice that number easily; my brothers are in good hands. Don is here, as well as that ever-present bag of his; _I_ am in good hands.

I can give up control.

Normally I hate to do so, because that often means giving my enemies control over my life as well as my brothers'. But lately…I'm just so tired. And I've seen, watching my brothers, that they are perfectly capable of controlling their own lives. They survived without me while I was gone, even if it was difficult.

But now…now my brothers are in control, and there isn't any need for me to do anything at all. It's odd, but…I find it relaxing, for once. To just lie here, even though I'm suddenly so cold, and give in to the fatigue that accompanies blood loss. To give up control, let Fate do what it will, and know that at least my brothers will be fine. Raph fears a loss of control nearly as much as I do, so I know that he will bleed out armies before giving control of this family up to anyone other than me. I am so thankful for his faith in me…he only takes control when I cannot, even if he questions me every other time. He is an excellent second in command…an excellent brother…

My thoughts aren't usually this scattered. I think I'm slipping.

I close my eyes. I can feel the pounding of Raph's steps bring him to my side. Good, they're all safe; Raph wouldn't stop fighting if even one enemy still remained standing. His breath ghosts against my face and I pry my eyes open, trying to figure out why he's so close. My eyesight wavers as I try to focus on him, and it takes more effort than it should to process his words. I eventually gather that it's just worry as he speaks furiously into my ears, his words a mess of anger and fear, "how could you be so stupid" and "don't you dare fall asleep". I can almost feel his words hitting me, they're so heavy with emotion.

I try for a reassuring smile, just a small one. The corners of my mouth lift slightly, but I'm careful not to show any teeth; I can vaguely taste blood in my mouth, from where I'd been punched earlier and from hitting the rooftop, and a smile full of bloody teeth is hardly comforting.

Naturally, it doesn't work. Raph's angrier now; his teeth are bared where mine are hidden, and his eyes are somehow wide with the fear he rarely admits to and narrow with the anger he constantly falls back on at the same time. I can feel his hand on my shoulder, and considering that the rest of me is numb, it probably means that he's gripping me with all his strength, as though he's trying to hold me here. I want to tell him that I'm not _going_ anywhere, but I know he won't listen. I should say something, though...I can't stand that look of fear in his eyes, in _any_ of their eyes, but especially Raph's. I'm so tired…but I manage a small reassurance.

_It's okay. I'm alright; it's not that bad..._

Raph's grip tightens even further, and his anger is even more present in his features. My brothers' presence seems to have strengthened me a bit, because the muffling in my ears is no longer thick enough to block out parts of his shouting, bits like _"this isn't okay" _and _"stubborn, lyin' __bastard__"_. He hates it when I try to protect him; Raph would rather have any cold, hard truth instead.

But at least he doesn't look scared anymore. Anger overwhelms fear.

That should be the last thing I have to take care of.

I can feel Don's hands on my leg, and I know he's dealing with the aching stretch of my wound. And I can feel Mikey's hands as well, on my face and arm, seeking and giving comfort. They look so worried, but I'm just too tired to tell them that it doesn't even hurt that badly. The most I can do is smile slightly and let my eyes slide shut.

They're safe. It's alright for me to slip now.

I can feel my control and consciousness bleeding away…and for once I don't mind.

Abdication…powerlessness…

Perhaps they're not always so bad…

* * *

**A/N: **And there you go! As always, concrit on characterization, verb tense issues, etc. is welcomed and appreciated, as are reviews and blatant love. Flames will be used to contribute to global warming, so be warned! :D


	12. Parents

This is just little ficlet that just popped into my head tonight and seemed too good not to waste. It's set in the universe of "The More Things Change", just to place things. As for the OC in here, she won't show up in that fic. As to whether an OC _like_ her and a similar situation might appear in that story at some point…who knows? ^_^ And speaking of TMTC, I'm still chugging along, but I'm not progressing as much as I'd like to be. I've hit a little bit of writer's block, which I'm attempting to dislodge with this little one-shot, and midterms will be owning me this weekend and next week, but after that it's Spring Break! So keep an eye out for the next chapter (hopefully) somewhere between March 8-15. :)

In other business, I would like to thank **Rhoda J, Sabrinasidd, **and **arianshifter** for reviewing the last chapter. Reviewers make the world shiny and happy!

(Oh, right, and as always, TMNT=not mine.)

* * *

Tanya can't help but smile and feel her heart swell when Leo turns to her suddenly at the end of a movie, one of the few nights they both had off for some much-needed time together, and asks her if she'd like to have dinner with him and his brothers tomorrow evening. It's not the first time he'd asked her, nor the first time she said yes, but even though she never refuses such an invitation, his voice is cautious each time, as though he suddenly thinks that _this_ time she'll turn him down. As though after nearly eight months, she'd suddenly decide to stop loving him and his brothers.

Idiot. As if she could.

She smiles and says yes, tells him she'll bring some sweet potato casserole (with extra marshmallows for Michelangelo) and a pie. Leo's youngest brother raves about that casserole every time she brings it, and not just because she knows he loves to make her blush; her mom had always said that there wasn't a soul in the world that could resist the Jackson women's casserole…or the Jackson women.

She can't help but feel honored every time Leo asks her over, because she knows how dear his brothers are to him, how hard it is for him to share them with others, and she's touched that he's willing to share them with her.

The next evening's meal is as crazy as ever, full of Raphael bickering with Michelangelo as he hoards the casserole and tries to pick out all the marshmallows for himself, and Donatello rolling his eyes from beside her as he hands her the pot roast and apologizes for his brothers. Michelangelo ignores them as he entreats her, the way he does every time, to call them by their nicknames rather than their full names; after all, they're friends, right? Practically family, really. She laughs and refuses the same way she does every time, telling them that their names are too lovely to be shortened. Michelangelo pouts, absently holding the casserole out of Raphael's reach despite the vicious pokes to the kidneys the other keeps dispensing upon him, and points out that she calls Leo by his nickname, and that's blatant favoritism. She laughs again and agrees that it really is. Leo just sighs, resigned, and squeezes her hand gently underneath the table, a thank you and an apology and a personal reassurance all in one.

She loves these dinners. With her own family scattered across the country, it's a welcome change to have some family nearby, even if they aren't hers.

It comes as a surprise to her when she hears Donatello asking Michelangelo if he's packed yet, or if he's _still_ putting it off. She asks what it is they're packing for, wondering if they're going on a trip and why Leo didn't mention it to her.

The four of them fall quiet suddenly before Raphael glances at his brothers and nonchalantly swipes the casserole from Michelangelo's hands, casually announcing that they're just going off to visit their father for a few days, nothing big.

Leo gets a chagrined look on his face, turning to her and apologizing for forgetting to tell her, but it had just slipped his mind. It was only for a few days, and then he'd be back.

Tanya shakes her head at him and tells him it's fine, he didn't have to tell her everything he did, and that she was glad for him. It was nice that they were able to visit their father; her parents still lived in Oklahoma, too far away to be able to visit any more frequently than on the big holidays.

Michelangelo suddenly snorts, choking a little on his green beans and what sounds suspiciously like a laugh. Raphael, of course, helpfully slaps him on the back (and the back of the head, rather less helpfully) until he stops. The blonde struggles to control himself, his lips twitching into a grin, agreeing that it is really quite convenient that their father isn't halfway across the world or anything.

For some reason, Raphael smacks him again.

Donatello sighs once more, his expression longsuffering, and repeats his question. Michelangelo shakes his head, entirely unrepentant, and promises he'll do it tonight, absolutely, for real this time. He winks at her over his glass of milk as he takes a sip, and she knows that he'll be packing the morning of their trip and not a moment before.

Leo sets his fork down, the motion oddly resolute, and turns to her, suddenly asking her if she'd like to come with them to meet his father.

One almost would have thought he'd asked her to marry him, given the reactions.

Raphael snorts into his drink, his eyes wide, managing to inhale a good amount of beer and sneezing violently as he proceeds to swear in what she assumes is Japanese.

Michelangelo's eyes look as though they will swallow his face as he sprays his mouthful milk across the table.

Donatello simultaneously drops his forkful of casserole on the floor and absently snatches up the not-quite-empty platter of pot roast, turning it to shield both her and himself from Michelangelo's spit take, all the while staring at Leo as though he'd grown a second head. The remnants of the pot roast drop onto the tablecloth, the soft plops the only sound in the entire apartment once Raphael stops choking.

Leonardo's cheeks are adamantly red as he glares furiously at his brothers, blushing in that way that she knows he hates. He raps out something low and angry at them, again presumably in Japanese, his clenched jaw cutting off some of the sounds. His brothers seem to get the point, though they don't stop gaping. Michelangelo is inexplicably staring at her, something like hope in his eyes and face as he ineffectually tries to pile the pot roast back onto the dishes and mop up his milk. Donatello coughs slightly, lowering the platter and pushing his food around on his plate awkwardly while Raphael wipes his face and looks at his brother in something resembling concern.

She has no idea what to make of their reactions, so she looks uncertainly at Leo, who squeezes her hand and asks her again, if she'd like to come with them.

Part of her wonders if she's not welcome, and that is why his brothers reacted the way they did, but they don't seem upset at the idea, just surprised. They're all watching her (though Donatello, at least, is politely trying not to stare, only casting anxious glances at her from the corners of his eyes), waiting for her answer. She looks at Leo again, seeing the hope and inexplicable worry in his face, that same look as though he thinks she'll turn down his dinner invitations, only deeper and more anxious and apprehensive, and finds her resolve; regardless of what's going on, she wants Leo to know beyond the shadow of a doubt that she wants to be with him and get to know his family. She'd be honored to go, she tells them, if she wouldn't be intruding or a bother; she'd love to meet the man who had adopted them and been both sensei and father to them.

Whatever is going on, Leo's face lights up at her acquiescence, and she thinks that even if she's gotten herself into something she doesn't understand, she doesn't mind as long as she can put that kind of a smile on Leo's normally reserved face. He squeezes her hand, leaning forward slightly before catching himself, aware of the eyes on them. He settles for another squeeze and a warm smile, telling her that she's more than welcome and he's sure their father will love her.

Michelangelo pushes his chair back suddenly, grinning at her, and declares that the occasion requires pie for some reason she still can't figure out. He does a little jig into the kitchen while Donatello makes a regretful, exasperated noise at the sight of the tablecloth and attempts to do some retroactive damage control, an odd smile on his face. Raphael is still looking between her and Leo intently, though he finally nods slowly and toasts her.

Their odd behavior makes no sense, though a small voice in the back of her head whispers that perhaps there's something more to this trip than just meeting their father. She can't for the life of her figure out what, though, so she merely nods back at Raphael, accepts a plate from Michelangelo, and tells Donatello that the tablecloth can wait a little while longer, as it's already stained and she brought lemon meringue pie specifically for him. The atmosphere is somehow even lighter than earlier, once the awkward tension passes, and she assumes that it was probably nothing more than the fact that she is the first girl in a while that Leo has wanted to introduce to his father, if not the only one. Michelangelo keeps beaming at her and Leo from across the table, and Leo's hand is warm around her own, and whatever is going to happen on the trip, she can't bring herself to worry or care, not as long as Leo keeps looking at her like that.

After all, there isn't anything that could make her stop loving him.


	13. Blend

_**Disclaimer**__: Turtles aren't mine. I've been too busy with school to track down Eastman and Laird, so my attempts to beg/coerce them to sign over ownership haven't gone anywhere._

_OMG, I'm alive! Shocking, I know. ^_^;; I can't believe how long it's been since I've posted anything, let alone on this story. Senior year has been eating my life, though, and capstone is so much worse than I expected, so free time has been at an all-time low. I'm finally reaching the finish line, though, and my Thanksgiving break is coming up in three days, so I'm taking a break to remind myself what it's like to write for fun rather than for class. I apologize for the delay, but school does have to come first. I've finally got some free evenings and I'm finally rested enough to feel creative again, though, which means you finally get more drabbles! Also, drabbles are a lot less time-intensive than chapters of TMTC. I'm still working on that in bits and pieces, and I'm hoping to try and get another chapter out over break, but it might have to wait until after exams, so if there's nothing next week, wait until about December 7. I'm really looking forward to getting back into the saddle with that one and moving things along._

_Anyways, I'm going to try and get another one or two drabbles out this weekend to tide you guys over and as another thank you for your patience. I'm going to be playing around with style a little bit, so be prepared. Also, a warning: this drabble is written in the dreaded second person, because I was feeling adventurous. If that's not your cup of tea, I totally understand, but I'd like some feedback if you guys don't mind; it's the first time I've tried this, and I want to know whether it sucked or not. It's also a Donnie drabble, because I've been neglecting him a little bit and I wanted to try and get in his head a little more since I haven't spent much time there. Happy reading!_

* * *

You've always been full of questions, always wanted to know not just the 'how' or the 'when' behind things, but the 'why' as well. Your brothers and father generally humor you in this. Master Splinter was often bringing books and a staggering amount of patience home in the evenings when you were a turtle tot, handing you answers and truths bound in covers in a casual manner that both humbled you and made you look at him aghast; how could he think it was such a little thing, how could he not realize what he was giving you?

(It didn't take you long to realize that he knew exactly how precious those books were, but also that he was never in the habit of denying any of you anything.)

Your brothers have handled it rather less gracefully at times. You still remember the handful of times when you were really young that Raphie would reach his limit (something that admittedly never took that long) with your questions…especially the most explosive time. There was a quick twist of the snout, and that was all the warning you got; and by that point, it was always too late to run or apologize. He just picked you up—his strength was a part of him even at such a young age—and planted you headfirst into the couch cushions like a turnip, covered you with pillows, and then pulled Mikey over to sit on your legs, denying you the leverage you'd need to pull your face out of the collection of lint-covered Cheez-Its lurking in between the cushions. Then he stormed off, leaving you with Mikey and _his_ incessant questions about what was going on, why were you and Raphie fighting, what'd you _do_, was Raphie really mad, and would you mind looking for his Spiderman action figure since you were already in the couch? There was no break in the questions, no chance for you to explain to Mikey that you couldn't answer because you couldn't breathe because he wouldn't let you up and you didn't want to inhale anything in that couch.

That was about when you realized that Raph had made his point, and done so very well in his own way; where Master Splinter would always explain the consequences of actions and provide gentle but firm chastisement, Raph had always been more _demonstrative_ in his 'explanations'. That was probably why they tended to stick so well.

You got the point; Raph was off-limits for questions unless they were about lost belongings, if he was ready for practice, or what he wanted to drink with dinner.

(It took nearly five minutes for someone to come by and rescue you; you remember hearing Leo's voice just when you were starting to get dizzy, felt the weight leave your legs, heard the grunt as Leo levered you out of the couch. He'd taken a look at your face—both the blush and the gum stuck to your forehead—and then glanced towards the dojo where familiar mutterings were audible, and a look of understanding passed his face. He patted your shoulder in that solemn, sympathetic way he had even as a chubby child and suggested you go wash your face.)

You learned to curb your questions after that, or write them down, per Leo's suggestion, since you only pestered people because you were afraid you'd forget all the questions you had before you'd get a chance to ask them. Then, books became more available and you could search out the answers yourself. And then came the wonderful day the computer arrived, and you learned to find the answers yourself, and then you started answering questions instead of asking them.

There are still a few left, though; ones you haven't asked yet, that you forget about or keep putting off. Mainly things to be asked of your father, and at this moment, one has been at the forefront for a few days.

Why had he given you purple?

You'd wondered it for years, especially when the teasing had been at its worst, comments about girly colors, nicknames like Donna. It'd been kid stuff, but in conjunction with your own realizations about your dislike for violence, it'd struck deeper than you'd wanted it to, and deeper than your brothers had probably meant it to, either. You just sucked it up, though, and fired back at Raph—since he was often the one behind most of the taunts—that red was awfully close to pink, and made him look like a blushing little girl.

The bruises were worth it, and the silence afterwards even more so.

After that, you just kind of let it go, but lately, you're wondering if there's more of a reason behind the color other than the fact that blue, red, purple and orange were the materials your father had on hand at the time.

You've always been hesitant to believe that; Sensei doesn't do anything arbitrarily, so there's got to be some kind of a reason. Probably.

You've ruled out that you got your colors because they were traditional ninja colors or ones that would help you blend in; purple is still pretty noticeable. And Raph and Mikey blow that idea right out of the water; there's nothing inconspicuous about the bright red and orange of their bandanas.

(It doesn't really matter for Leo; you're pretty sure that Sensei could have given him hot pink and attached some bicycle reflectors to it, and Leo would still manage to _not_ be seen. That's just Leo.)

Sometimes you wonder if it's a comment on who you are. Purple is a secondary color, a blend of blue and red, and is your father trying to say that you're just a combination of Raph and Leo? That you're not your own person, but the sum of your brothers?

That one never quite rings true either. You know your father loves all of you just as you are, faults and failings and fears, and never told any of you to be anything other than yourselves, never used the 'why can't you be more like Leonardo' line that you often expected, because Leo was everything a parent wanted a child to be, except for the fact that he wasn't a child. Besides, that would mean Mikey would be part Raph and part…someone else, and disregarding the fact that there's no one wearing yellow to mix with Raph, Mikey and his sunny smiles and easy love and forgiveness are worlds away from Raph's bluster and grudges and the passionate way he does _everything_.

You realize this is probably a really bad time to be thinking about things like that, crouching as you are on a dirty rooftop, tying your bandana around the nasty gash in Raph's leg as he swears violently and extensively at the gang bangers who waylaid the two of you on your way home from a junkyard raid. You'd ask him to tone it down if it wasn't so reassuring; if he's got the breath and energy to come up with such detailed, embarrassing, and physiologically impossible comments about the parentage and sexual activities of the Purple Dragons behind you, he's obviously alright.

The question sticks nonetheless, and one part of your brain, well-used to juggling several different tangents at once, keeps musing over the idea of you as an amalgamation of your brothers. The concept still doesn't feel like the right answer, though. Maybe your colors really were just what Master Splinter had on hand, or commentary on your individual personalities.

Besides, there's very little of your red and blue brothers in you. You're used to seeing Mikey in you, the way both of you let things be, let things go easily, the way you find joy in the little things, though rarely in the same things. But Raph and Leo…you don't have Raph's love of fighting or his prickliness, or Leo's commanding presence or disconnection to everything that isn't family or Ninjutsu. You're not your brothers.

And yet.

And yet, as you watch Raph bleeding through your bandana, you start to feel cold, in the same way you've seen Leo's face get after one of you get wounded, when he stops being so considerate of the lives of others and starts to use the edges of his swords. And the way red is slowly (and thank goodness it's slowly, because no spurting means it missed the artery and major veins) bleeding through the purple is ironically poignant, and maybe the way it oddly makes you want to put that into graceful words is a bit of Leo as well.

The way your hearing mutes out everything but the laughing jeers of the thugs, though, that's Raph. The sudden creeping of anger and protectiveness and an uncharacteristic desire for vengeance are him too. You carefully depress two nearly-invisible knobs at each end of your bo, and hear the nearly inaudible _snick_ as the thin, razor sharp blades you'd installed a week ago on a whim (the dark, anger-driven whim of someone who'd had to pull a shiv out of his brother's arm) snap out and lock into place.

Raph's brows go up, but he grins, in that way that always reminds you of a shark—too many bright teeth glinting, all menace and promise, except while sharks tear through opponents as a matter of natural programming, Raph does it for fun.

His approval warms you a bit, oddly enough, and you can tell your answering smile is more than a little grim as you stand and face the Purple Dragons.

It's just three extra inches of steel on each end, scalpels you can't bring yourself to use again after the sickening instances in which you had to use them on your brothers. They're light, and sharp, and won't throw off the balance of your bo at all, nor will their presence compromise the integrity of the weapon; you're always careful, after all. They're Raph's mean streak and Leo's determination for the family and Mikey's love of surprises and your creative genius all in one.

The Dragons stop laughing. Even they can realize the import of the situation, considering the fact that you've never brought blades to the show before.

Maybe there is a bit of your brothers in you. But the careful strikes, the arcing precision, the slow methodical progression through the knot of thugs, the knowledge of where to cut to sever the Achilles' or the hamstring or the _radialis brevis_, the assurance that the strikes will maim, weaken, immobilize, incapacitate, but not kill—

That's all you.


	14. Through

_Disclaimer: Not mine, or "going to work" would have an entirely different meaning and be a lot more fun._

I'm still alive! Hard as it may be to believe. I can't believe it's been so long since I updated this, except then I look at how long my average "drabble" is…and it makes a bit more sense. ^_^;; So now I'm trying to break myself of writing mini-stories instead of drabbles and just get these things written and done and leave 'em alone. My problem is that when I get ideas I like, I want to just run with them, but I keep running into the fact that I don't have the time or the brain-space to make full stories out of every idea I get. So I'm trying to just do sketches rather than full paintings, as it were.

So here's my first attempt in that vein; this sucker was written in about half an hour today. It's pretty rough, but given the style and the character focus, I think it works. Hopefully. Let me know what you think!

(Also, just a warning for this one, it's got some language, 'cause Raph is kind of a potty mouth. Or at least I tend to make him one sometimes.)

* * *

Through

* * *

As much as everyone seems to think Raph thrives on resistance, he's really all about breaking down things that resist him. He's never been a "path of least resistance" kind of guy; there's no challenge there. He's a simple guy, and he can see the simplest paths. They're rarely the ones with the fewest obstacles, but depending on the obstacles, sometimes they're still easier or faster.

Like now. He knows there's more than one way out, one way home, one way to get his brother some help. But there's one certain, _quick_ way.

That way is through the soldiers in front of him. Not around, not under, not over.

_Through_. Straight through.

Raph's not his brothers. He's not Mikey, who thinks there's a way around everything if you bounce or flip high or far enough. He's not Leo, who can plot the most careful and effective way past any obstruction without anyone being the wiser. And he's definitely not Don, who thinks it's possible to slip around battle and still come out the winner.

He's just himself. And what he knows is anger and battle. And since that's all the Foot is made of, he knows them by proxy. There's no around or past or _talking_ with them, and that's fine. He's got nothing to say to them anyways, other than "go to hell" or "tell your bitch of a boss she's next."

There's only going through them. It's what Raph's weapons do. It's what Raph does.

All his life he's been trained for going through obstacles. He comes up against obstructions every day—the obstacles of secrecy, of the world above them, of safety and honor and the bonds of family. And Leo, always Leo, the only block he's never made it through (and never really wants to, because he's seen what he does to obstacles). Let Mikey and Don and Leo circumvent things; he knows the shortest distance between two points is a straight line.

And this time, help for his brother lies at the end of the line.

Which means that the Foot? They're just speed bumps along the length of that line.

Sometimes the line is painted in blood. Sometimes Raph's the one doing the painting. But he walks through sewers on a regular basis; blood's no big deal. Walking in other people's shit somehow, ironically, makes the metaphorical kind, his or others', much less of a deal sometimes. Puts it in perspective, as it were. He's incurred worse on his karmic record, if he believed in that kind of stuff, and done so for his own sake.

So for his brothers' sakes? He'd paint cities red and count it well worth the cost. That's just how it is. Raph's a bull, the kind of animal that will chase red, will throw itself at a wall or a body or a fence until it comes down, because they all will eventually.

Except Leo. Because it's taken a few years, but Raph's learned that his brother is less of a fence and more of a gate, still an obstruction, but one that you can go through without destroying it, once you figure out how it works. Sometimes he misses it, sometimes he can't figure it out, but as much as he chafes at any kind of restraint, he knows he needs it, and Leo's an obstacle he'd rather live with than without.

So going through half a dozen people to make sure Leo sticks around to be a pain in his ass? Worth it, no question.

Raph goes to work. He's good at getting through to people in his own way.

Hours later, when they're both safe and home and have had the blood cleaned off of both of them—never mind whose it is—Leo finally wakes up. He's a couple pints low but still coherent enough to look worried, and asks him if they got home alright, if he's hurt as well, and Raph just tells him the truth.

He got through it, just like always.


	15. Irreplaceable

_Disclaimer: See previous chapters_.

OMG, another drabble! And not even five months later! 0.0 Truly this is a sign of the end times.

Or that I'm finally kicking my butt into gear. ^_^;;

Anywho, another drabble, just for you! Or rather, given that it's about 1500 words, I guess it's more of a one-shot. I'm getting better at writing shorter pieces, though, so at least it's a step in the right direction.

So here's a Don-centric piece for y'all, and be forewarned it's pretty depressing; I've been itching to write some SAINW-centric pieces, and given that episode, depressing is inevitable. Please read and review!

* * *

Irreplaceable

* * *

When they get back after the Daimyo's Son/Draco-freak-show trip, all his brothers can do is compare stories of bike races and epic battles and superpowers, demanding his story as well so that they can all revel in the unexpected _awesome_ that was their most recent daily debacle. It's one of the few (probably the only) enemy-related events that didn't totally suck.

At least for them.

Don thinks it's like Show-and-Tell, and that's fifteen different kinds of morbid, considering what he has to share. So is the fact that of all of them, he was the one who got the short straw, the nightmare instead of the dream—the pacifist gets sent to war (except for once, that had been what was needed). He wishes he'd gotten sent with one of his brothers, gotten to go where they went instead; even watching a Splinter go evil and try to destroy the world wouldn't be as bad as seeing the grave of a Splinter, regardless of whether it is/was/will be his Splinter or not.

He doesn't want to wish that future on anyone, but part of him can't help thinking that if it had just been Leo there—Leo could have pulled it off, could have led the guerilla assault without everyone dying. Leo could pull perfect plans out of thin air. But then, Raph probably would have started killing things (people) if he'd had to deal with two Leos (even if their combined planning skills could have probably led to a successful invasion of Fort Knox). And Leo undoubtedly would have come back with a guilt trip even worse than the one after the incident on Saki's ship; it's one thing to think you failed your family, and a whole other to think/see/realize that your failings have damned and condemned the entire world.

It's a kind of guilt that Leo would never get out from under. It's one Don hopes he himself will someday.

So of course it's his turn to tell his story, and even though he tries to demure, his brothers won't drop it.

"C'mon, Donnie, where'd you go? Didja make any friends? What was it like?" Mikey is always all about questions, a teenager full of a six-year-old's incessant _why_s.

And he answers honestly, mainly because he knows his brothers, knows that they'll never stop asking; they care too much. Hiding things never works, either not for long or not at all. Mikey can't stop being curious, Leo can't stop worrying, and Raph can't stop looking for excuses to go fight something for his family. The truth will (hopefully) buy him some peace, at least from them, if not from their ghosts.

"I went somewhere where the Shredder is in control and everything is blighted and it's like Nazi Germany except for the entire human race. It was the future. It might have been ours," he says bluntly. Even with as cold and detached as he's trying to be, even with the nice wave of shock he's been riding on for three days or five minutes or one nightmare—depending on who you ask—he still has to brace himself to get out the next words. "And you're all dead."

_It's been unseasonably warm lately. The price of milk is going up. Apparently Illinois is suffering a drought_._ Oh, and you all die because of me. Horribly. Painfully. Right in front of me._

Just everyday news. He has no reason to cry or scream over something so everyday and inconsequential. Because people don't talk about their families being exterminated in the same tone of voice they use to discuss changes in road construction.

"I'm going to bed," he adds into the silence, and it feels like the words are weighted, the way they drop into that quiet. And part of him is glad for the absence of questions as he turns and heads upstairs, but the other part is commenting that they're just as quiet now as they were right after he got them killed.

Don detours and heads for the bathroom instead; they don't have so many extra blankets lying around that he can afford to ruin his by vomiting all over them.

Once he's locked the door behind him, it's all he can do to make it to the toilet before the images of his brothers—old, bent, broken in each other's absence _and_ presence, disfigured, dead—throw his stomach into complete revolt. He's got enough time to be absently grateful for his kneepads as he kneels (crashes) to the floor and vomits so hard he thinks he's dislodged his spleen.

Don wants not to ever fight again. He wants to forget everything. He wants to pump mustard gas and anthrax into every vent of Foot HQ. He wants to spend the next months visiting the past of every dimension and time he can and kill the Shredder and Karai now, then, whenever, before it's too late for any version of him and his family.

Most of all, he wants to find Renet and her master and ask whether that is really his future, their future, or if it's the future of another him. He doesn't want to know. He has no clue what to do if it's their future; probably ask them to go back in time before they told him and then not tell him.

He wants to go find himself, find out if the Don of _then_ died or left or was taken or _what_, so he'd know how to prevent it or stop it or not make that choice…also so that he could punch that Don for abandoning the family, for leaving a void that he had to fill.

He wonders why he doesn't share with his brothers the fact that they save the world, if not the day; that they finally destroy the Shredder and Karai and Hun and Stockman all together at once. That the world is free, and there's even someone left to lead it out of Hell.

He thinks it's because they might say it was worth it. Leo would say it was worth it, if he'd been the only one to fall. Raph might not mind such an end either, going down fighting, kicking ass and watching death finally stick for Karai and the Shredder. Even Mikey might not mind; it's a superhero end if ever there was one, if not a happily-ever-after. But knowing that each other died…that's always been more than they've been willing to pay.

Don doesn't want to hear congratulations or platitudes. Pyrrhic victories are victories only in name; everyone knows that. They still taste like ash. Doing the best you can still isn't worth a thing if it gets everyone you love (minus one) killed. And just because you didn't lose everything, just because the enemy lost more, doesn't mean you won. It just means you lost less.

Once, looking back over the experience, he remembers that right after he first came across Michelangelo in the future, there was a short, quiet moment when he was oddly, inexplicably (sickeningly) flattered by what he'd been told, that he'd been the lynchpin in the family. He'd always known that his brothers loved him and depended on him for keeping things intact and running, but he'd never thought of himself as _necessary_. He'd never thought that his brothers, his family, needed him quite so much. Out of all of them, he had always thought of Leo as being the one that would always be needed; he was their leader, their big brother, the official Banisher of Monsters Under the Beds and Chastiser of All Things Un-Ninja-Like. Leo was necessary.

He was not.

Except that, apparently, he was.

Don thinks he'd rather be replaceable, panting as his stomach subsides for the moment, wishing he could turn his brain off. He doesn't want to have so much riding on him, like Leo; he doesn't understand how Leo balances son and brother and _chuunin_ and trainer and disciplinarian and friend and comrade and partner-in-crime and all the other hats Leo juggles.

He's seen what being irreplaceable does, both to the irreplaceable and the ones who name them as such.

Don doesn't want to be trapped. It's not so much that he has somewhere else to be, some other life to live elsewhere (which is why he can't, can't, _can't_ figure out why the hell he/him/me/I left—where on earth, or off of it, did he/I think he/I was going?). It's just that now, even if he ever does get some kind of opportunity, some other option, he can't take it, because he's seen what happens without him.

Everything falls off the table when one leg is taken away. Nothing's balanced if a side of the parallelogram is missing. The solution destabilizes and explodes if the proper chemicals aren't all present.

Or, if he cuts through the metaphor bullshit, all his brothers die without him there.

No pressure or anything.

He heaves again and wishes he could go back to thinking himself unnecessary and underappreciated.

Someone knocks on the door and Don thinks, without even knowing who it is, _you're going to die. It'll probably be my fault_.

There's nothing left in his stomach, possibly not even that anymore, and he wishes he could purge his memories the same way.

* * *

"_When you never came back, Donny...well, everything just...fell apart. We were a team. Without you, it just didn't work. I guess we really needed that level head of yours."_


	16. Delirium

_Disclaimer: see previous chapters._

Another Leo drabble! I promise I'm branching out more—I've actually got a Splinter-centric drabble that I'll post in a day or two, and an April-centric drabble in the works, but this one was more willing to be written, and I'm just posting it now rather than making you guys wait for me to finish a different fic. Besides, I figure you guys are used to the abundance of Leo in my fics by now. ^_^;;

Anywho, just another quick little drabble, less than 600 words (which is a mark of restraint for me). I'm really trying to decrease my word count and actually do drabbles, something that's about 300 words or less, but when I get certain ideas, I'd rather flesh them out to the point that I'm satisfied that I've done them justice rather than cut them down to the bare minimum. Plus I doubt anyone is going to complain to having more to read rather than less, and you all know I'm outrageously long-winded anyways. ;b

This one just kind of lodged in my brain the other day, and I was wondering, what did Leo do when he was alone in Central America and something went wrong? What was it like to have no safety net, no family, no support? This might be something I'll explore more in the future, a set of vignettes on what everyone did during Leo's year-and-a-half training stint. (But after TMTC is finished, probably.)

* * *

Delirium

* * *

It's happened before, this smothering heat that saps all his strength and leaves him feeling drained and more uncoordinated than he'd ever been during adolescence or any of his growth spurts. It's rare, given the fact that Leo regiments his health with the same precision he applies to everything else, but no less violent for that.

Fevers are naturally worse for them than for humans, Don explains; their bodies, endothermic as they are, aren't meant to sustain high temperatures. It hits them harder, keeps them down longer.

Leo hates the weakness, the way he's confined to bed, the worried way his family peers at him…but he can't bring himself to hate the moments of peace the fevers bring. Like when Leo finds himself confined to the couch, huddled under blankets, feeling ready to crawl from his own skin if only he could find the energy. He's alone for maybe two minutes before his family gravitates towards him.

Master Splinter is at his elbow, offering him a cup of tea, willow bark to fight the fever, the strong taste softened with honey. Mikey pops a movie in and claims the other end of the couch, heedless of Don's warnings of contamination, and shoves his legs up against Leo's, knowing how Leo always calms when his family is close enough to touch. Don lines up a battery of medications on the coffee table, interspersing them with Master Splinter's homeopathic remedies, because even his science can't argue with the effectiveness of the old standbys. Raph steals up behind the couch, leaning against it casually, laying one hand across Leo's forehead. Leo leans his head back against the couch and closes his eyes in relief at the cool touch, the temperature leeching some of the heat from his skin and easing the sick throbbing that's been lurking behind his eyes all day.

He opens his eyes to track his family, tilting his head back further to look at Raph and spying the can of beer in one hand, the secret of the coolness of his brother's touch. Leo opens his mouth, feeling like he should say something, but Raph just smirks at him and switches hands, placing his colder palm against Leo's forehead, and Leo's too grateful to lecture.

Tomorrow, he promises himself. When he's better. It'll make his family feel better as well.

For now, he's as comfortable as he's been all day, even with the fever and chills, even with the sounds of bird calls from the television—

Leo wakes with a start, the smell of incense and salves and popcorn fading into the scent of thick loam and the musty, earthy cave he's holed up in. Not the sewers, despite the fact that he's equally far below the earth. He's familiar enough with his own body to tell that the fever has broken, and the cool film of sweat on his forehead—resting against a water-worn rock, not his brother's palm—confirms it. He closes his eyes, straining to remember the weight of Raph's hand, the sense of his brothers, the sheltered sense of the Lair, but illusion is broken by the rustle of trees far above and the enveloping heat of the tropics. He knows he should be grateful, now that the worst is past, but all he feels is an aching sense of loss.

For a few minutes, he'd been home.


	17. Lessons

_Disclaimer: see previous chapters._

Oh my gosh, guys; another update in the SAME MONTH. 0.0 Shocking, I know. :b

Anywho, I am glad to present to you a Splinter drabble! Because I'm trying to branch out more with the characters, since I haven't done that much so far (cough Leo fixation cough). This one started off as just a flicker of an idea, then kind of wrote itself. The question that popped into my head was this: how did Splinter teach the guys everything they know? More specifically, how did he teach them the frightening, unpleasant lessons, when he had only just become sentient too and was only just learning how to be a father himself? So this was just a quick take on how one of those lessons might have gone down. Please let me know what you think; I'm still not sure if I like the ending, so any input would be greatly appreciated. ^_^

* * *

Lessons

* * *

Splinter's ears prick when he hears little feet go padding past his room, making an admirable attempt at silence. The hissed whispers he's learned to listen for tell him it's not just one of his sons getting a snack or heading for the bathroom; this is yet another bout of mischief.

It has been roughly a year, as best as Splinter can figure, since he and four small turtles were bathed in radioactive ooze; since he and his sons gained sentience. Since then, the small quartet has continued to amaze and exasperate him with their levels of energy and the bounds of their unintentional destruction. They bring him great joy, yes, and every morning that he wakes to four clumsy, pudgy (sometimes sticky) hugs, he is grateful that he made the decision to try and be a father to these four small bundles of potential.

Still, every morning that something gets broken (which so far has been more than half), he also wishes someone had warned him what parenting would be like.

He sighs and levers himself out of the warm nest of blankets he'd fallen into what feels like only a few scant hours before. The last time he ignored the signs that his sons were up to something, willing to trust that their judgment and his teachings would prevent any serious property damage, he'd woken to the smell of smoke and childish screams as they all discovered that one must _always_ remove any plastic coverings before snacks are forcibly inserted into the toaster.

Since then, he has learned to keep an eye on everything they do, and keep all electronics out of reach at night.

Slipping out of his room, Splinter catches the tail-end of a red bandana flashing around the corner and follows silently, wanting to see what his sons are up to this time.

He finds them all piled on the couch, the television remote clutched in Donatello's small hands as the four of them stare at the pictures on the screen and occasionally shush each other. Splinter sighs, noting that he also needed to remember to ensure the remote was out of reach from now on.

A vaguely familiar jingle sounds from the television set, and Splinter stiffens as he recognizes the beginning of a newscast. While he has taken to watching the news occasionally, in order to keep up with the events on the surface and learn more about humans, he has quickly learned it is frequently full of violence, something he hardly wants his young sons to see. Indeed, a broadcast on the recent uptick of gang violence—especially from a group Splinter believes calls themselves the Purple Dragons—was just starting on the screen. Splinter starts forward to call his sons to order and interrupt the broadcast before it goes any further—

And then stops, halted by a thought.

One of the many issues he has been pondering lately was how exactly to explain to his young—adventurous, inquisitive, occasionally disobedient—sons why exactly he was so adamant about them never showing themselves to humans. How did one explain violence, fear, hatred and prejudice to children, to small minds that could hardly even grasp such concepts? He doesn't want to scare his sons, but at the same time, he also can't bear the thought of them falling prey to the men with needles he sees in his nightmares. They need to be taught, sooner rather than later, and yet he hesitates to instill such a lifelong fear in them at such a young age. Additionally, he is stymied by the question of how to get the point across; fear, Splinter has learned, is not instinctual, it is taught. Before he saw an unlucky pedestrian struck by a cab, he had not feared cars. But how is he to provide such a demonstration for his sons? Is he to go out and find some humans, wait for them to engage in violence, then expose his sons to it?

Here, perhaps, is a way for them to learn, without his sons having to encounter any humans in person, without he himself having to impart the lesson. But is it the best way…?

Splinter hesitates one more moment, then bows his head and turns away.

Sleep does not come easily that night. Splinter waits ten long minutes before he hears small footsteps once more, and he asks no questions when four small bodies file into his room and join him in his bed, burrowing close. He merely hugs each of his sons tightly, apologizing in his mind for not being strong enough to have taught them this lesson himself, feeling their fear and confusion in his own mind, all five of them still so new to such thoughts and concepts. As much as guilt tugs at his heart with the few sniffles he hears that night, as much as he dreads the hesitant questions his sons will ask the next morning, part of him is still grateful that he was not the one to dim the light in their eyes. If nothing else, at least he personally was not the one to provide cause for the fear that would keep them alive.

The few parenting books he's managed to find have left something rather important out, Splinter decides that night; though several of the books assure him that object lessons are often the most effective…they neglected to mention that they are also often the most painful for all involved.


	18. Exoneration

_**Disclaimer**__: Still not mine._

Finally, another update! D: Again, sorry for the huge delay, but due to finally getting a full-time, big-kid job (yay!), I have had a lot less free time, which sadly translates to a lot less fanfiction time too. And what little I do have is generally being funnelled towards TMTC. But here's a drabble for you, and I'm gonna try and do a few more in the upcoming weeks; and I mean actual drabbles, not overgrown drabbles that mutate into one-shots. I need more practice at writing small fics anyways, get the creative juices flowing and such. :b

Anyway, onto another drabble! Only have eight more to go before this collection/montage is done…and of course I've left the hardest letters for myself. Sigh...

* * *

Exoneration

* * *

It's not until a year after the fact—a year full of terrifying battles, blood, bandages, late-night movie marathons and laughter—that April suddenly remembers her first meeting with the guys again, out of the blue. She's sitting on the couch with Mikey, watching an old martial arts film while he alternates seamlessly between praising the effects and offhandedly explaining to her which attacks are realistic and which ones aren't. He's laid up with a sprained ankle, the guys are out on a junkyard raid, and she's keeping him company (_babysitting_, Raph'd teased, taking advantage of Mikey's immobility to give him an affectionate noogie). Movies with Mikey, she's learned, are never quiet, because there's always some sort of running commentary going along with every scene, and she understands now why Don had wryly wished her luck before ducking out of the door.

It's a little thing that triggers the recollection, really; one of the women in the movie—a _kunoichi_, Mikey tells her as she rolls the word around on her tongue—screams when an invader attacks, sharp and shrill and full of shocked fear.

(Of course, the _kunoichi_ then proceeds to pull out her fan and coldly slit the invader's throat with the fan's steel ribs, snapping it shut afterwards and flipping the blood off in the same move, and Mikey starts another fact-purge of all the places ninja, and especially a _kunoichi_, can hide weapons, and _ask Leo about it when they get back, he probably knows more than anyone_.)

Still, the sudden reversal of the situation doesn't change the fact that the woman's scream had sounded exactly like how she herself had sounded when she'd first woken up in the Lair, and suddenly it seems imperative to apologize.

"I did that too, didn't I?"

Mikey breaks off his diatribe to blink at her. "You ganked a guy with a fan? When and how did I miss that?"

April laughs weakly. "No, I screamed like that, when I first met you guys." She chews on her lip. "I'm sorry."

The word sounds horribly inadequate, given how much they've done for her and how much she knows that kind of rejection secretly hurts them all, but it's all she can think to say.

Mikey looks at her, his expression knowing, and smiles softly. "Yeah, but then you listened."

The forgiveness is so effortless for him, and it almost hurts to be given it so easily, but that's Mikey; the past can never compete with the present for him, and he's always willing to let those who hurt him make up for it.

They all do it, Mikey and Master Splinter and Leo and Don and even Raph, in his gruff way, these people just waiting for someone else to love. These people who so casually and freely gave her a family again, selflessly sharing their home with her even when they only had each other. If she only had her family and no one else in the world, April thinks she'd never share them with anyone.

She leans her head against Mikey's, and the rough, dry skin feels familiar now. "I was afraid of you," she continues, and it's like a confession, because she still can't understand how they can forgive her for that so easily, when sometimes she feels like she's trying to make up for the intolerance of her species all on her own.

Mikey leans back against her, embrace and forgiveness and affection in one gesture, and gallantly deposits the popcorn bowl in her lap. "But you stayed," he counters, and the satisfied finality in his voice says more clearly than anything that for him, that was all that mattered, and it made up for everything. "And you're still here."

She is, she thinks, as Mikey effortlessly loops into a discussion of how the guy wielding nunchaku on the screen is obviously an amateur. She is still here.

And even if she remembers more of Mikey's rambling than the actual movie by the end of the evening, even if she's lost and rebuilt her home, even if she and normal are barely on speaking terms anymore, she knows it's the best choice she's ever made.

* * *

Thanks for reading, and as always, reviews are love! ^_^


	19. Zealot

_**Disclaimer**__: TMNT=still not mine._

Holy crap, two updates in the same month. It's probably a sign of the apocalypse, huh? :b Or a sign that I'm getting back into the groove. I've missed writing, and I really need to kick myself back into gear and not let work drain it out of me. After writing work stuff all day, it's hard to spend more time at the computer, but at the same time, I'm remembering what a relief/release it is to write for fun.

Either way, here's another drabble! And it's actually drabble-ish in length, just about 550 words. Time for a nice dark romp in the Shredder's brain; this is set post-_Exodus_, after Saki gets sent to time out on his little ice cube in space. This is both a case of brain-word-vomit, and also a bit of catharsis for me, because I have a movie-honed dislike of uncertain endings, and a TMNT-honed distrust of just putting villains aside; it's Saki, after all, and I'll never believe he's gone for good until we know for sure he's dead.

Also, this was written in about half an hour, so bear with me if it seems choppy. I'm playing with the style a little.

* * *

Zealot

* * *

For days and days, Saki doesn't even notice the biting cold buffeting the miserable little rock he's stranded on. His rage consumes him, leaving room for nothing else but memories that inspire more rage.

Those damn, cursed turtles and their little rat master, destroying his plans once again with a finality that makes him quiver in fury.

His useless, traitorous excuse for a "daughter," the tool that should have served him wholly and utterly betraying him instead, his right hand failing him in the middle of an attack.

And his own puling brethren, daring to impose their will upon him when he is the greatest of them, the only one willing to and capable of rising above their sickening pacifism to claim the power his intelligence entitles him to.

It cycles over and over, filling him, so that he snarls into the wind, tentacles writhing in helpless fury against the ice and snow, and he disregards all else around him, focused only on the black hate pumping through his veins, filling him full to bursting.

He doesn't notice the cold for days, not until his voice has disappeared, replaced by the howling wind. He doesn't notice the slow, creeping freeze, not until he realizes he can't move, his body frozen to the ground he is bound to. The ignominy of it all fans his rage higher, that he should be overcome so easily by mere elements. Even as the cold creeps deeper into him, his anger burns on, a sullen ember that never dies.

Even when he feels his heart slowing, even as the creeping stupor dulls his thoughts, the hate remains. He will never let it die. He pictures himself eviscerating his enemies, breaking their bones, building his empire ever greater over their corpses. It is his right. It is their destiny to perish for standing in his path.

Oroku Saki dies with his malice frozen over and perfectly preserved in him forever.

Utrom sentries are sent to the asteroid days later, part of a monthly pass to ensure Saki never escapes his prison. They find him, even now capable of inspiring terror, his face frozen forever in a rictus of hate, eyes wide and piercing. They hesitantly detach him from the ice, taking him back to the council.

There will be no burial, the council decrees. Beyond the fact that Saki does not deserve such consideration, any ground they placed him in would only be blighted as his poison seeped into the earth.

They disintegrate him instead, sending him the way of his beloved armor, erasing even the last fragments of his existence.

The council watches uneasily, relief tempered with the knowledge that Saki has blighted even their own race, because they can never again assume that another soul like him, full of ambition and empty of empathy, can be contained. If any others like Saki rise up, they will have to be put down. Saki will make them murderers by necessity, held forever by his hate and the knowledge of what it can do. They hate him for the task he has bound them to, for the blight of his existence as one of them, for the possibility of what he might inspire in others.

They have learned all about hatred from him, the depth and breadth of it, the timelessness of it, the sleepless watchfulness and cold patience it teaches.

And so they watch, and they wait.

* * *

_Hatred is one long wait. ~René Maran_


End file.
